Crispness of your cadence rips into the clishmaclaver. In
your vowels I cap my fulcrum. We’re the same fleece. In
warmth of whispers I freeze my words. Flambeau does us
in. My fireside isn’t fuelled as proteanism isn’t a part of my
portfolio. Love needs restraint. Hiraeth is a time-honored riff.
Lex talionis isn’t for us to spot. Someone else adjudicates it.
There is rarely a poem inked
from the champ’s perch.
No-one fucks a willing babe
and whistles in rhyme.
Verse is mostly the loser’s vent.
Incoherence are stratagems
of the articulate or,
those in emotional ache.
How does one say it?
Talk but not tell?
My buffet is bursting
with stock statements:
use them indiscreetly
in the bazaar of needs.
Some poems are resolute
like ca-ca on a rough day.
You’ve to be composed.
Cajole the process
A little force please.
Relief is the recompense.
Peculiarities of my post encourage me to engage
with the odd-lot. I love deeply and drop easily.
There are considerate folks out there. They
aren’t for me. Others twig they are for others.
People want to meet your profile: if utile dulci
they are all smiles and silly stuff, otherwise you
are you and they are they. I have no issue with it.
I’m no different.